


Richie and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Morning

by Integral_of_Awesome



Category: Static Shock
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 12:45:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7268767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Integral_of_Awesome/pseuds/Integral_of_Awesome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One may be the loneliest number. </p>
<p>"Hey, Foley Four-eyes!"</p>
<p>But two can be as bad as one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Richie and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Morning

Richie was walking to school alone.

He usually walked with Virgil Hawkins AKA Static Shock AKA a video game addict notorious for loosing the TV remote control. They walked to school together, and after enduring the eight hours of state-mandated "education", they went to Virgil's house to play video games, to the Community Center Virgil's pops owned to shoot some hoops, or to the Abandoned Gas Station of Solitude (although, between Virgil and Richie and occasional visits from the _Justice League_ , when was there ever really solitude?) to prep for their part-time superhero-ing. They would do homework (or, at least, Virgil would do homework while Richie complained that Virgil was still doing homework) and probably eat dinner together. Who knows, Richie might even stay the night.

There had been more than a few nights (school or no) that Richie had spontaneously decided to crash at the Hawkins' house. Sharon made snarky comments about Richie's mooching, and Mr. Hawkins would joke that Richie's parents would forget what he looked like, but they never kicked him out, and there was always room for him at the dinner table. Honestly, Richie spent more time there then at his own home. Why was that? Well, therein lies the problem, and the very reason why Richie was not walking to school with Virgil as per norm.

Richie had called Virgil the night before to warn him off, claiming a visit from his grandma and wincing when he could practically _hear_ Virgil's shackles go up. Virgil _knew_ that Richie's extended family (and even the not-so-extended family) didn’t take kindly to people under a different ethnic or racial umbrella than themselves, but what had to be done had to be done.

At that point, Richie had yet to decide if he was even going to school, but Richie's dad wasn't working until later in the day, so the decision pretty much made itself. Still, Richie wanted to (for once) limit his exposure to Virgil. He found it incredibly hard to lie to someone he'd known most of his life and trusted with almost all of his secrets.

Almost being the key word.

It wasn't that Richie didn't _trust_ Virgil with this secret, though, because Richie trusted Virgil with his life (literally). The problem was that Richie didn't want Virgil to overreact, which would inevitably happen. Like, bulging eyes, Virgil's father, _police_ overreacting. Virgil had a very big heart.

Richie, on the other hand, had a very big brain. He'd thought long and hard about his predicament and had reached a decision. Mostly, the decision consisted of doing nothing at all. He was already sixteen, almost seventeen. Pretty soon he'd be off at college or living on his own. It would be silly to have gone through the last sixteen years all to throw his life into chaos in the final stretch.

Virgil, being both a Hawkins and so very _Virgil_ , would not see it as clearly. Actions would be rash; problems would occur; consequences would be irreversible. Telling Virgil had "Danger Will Robinson" written all over it, and Richie wasn't too keen on taking the elevator up to that disaster waiting to happen.

Besides, Richie was used to it.

The previous night's incident had actually been quite unexpected. He and his dad hadn't gotten into it like that since… well, since Virgil had come over to their house for the first time a little over two years prior, when things had quickly gone to hell and then recovered quite admirably, and his dad had tried after that. He'd really made an effort to understand his son's life.

It had worked, for a little while, but old dogs learn new tricks slowly and slip into old habits quickly, and prodding sleeping dogs always ends with their teeth in your face.

Richie had been playing his usual game of "dodge the dad.” Usually, Richie tried to pick nights his dad was working to stay home, but the cease-fire had deceived him, and he'd forgotten what his dad got like when he was really and truly pissed (in both senses of the word).

Yes, Mr. Foley had been messing around in the liquor cabinet after a hard day at work. His dad's shoulders were so tense they almost touched his ears and his hands kept clenching and unclenching, a nervous habit Richie had once found unnerving.

He knew how to read between the lines, but he hadn't seen any harm in going downstairs to grab a quick snack. After all, even teenage superhero geniuses need to eat. He hadn't expected his dad to be roaming the hallway with a drink in the perfect clumsy-teenage-son-spilling range.

His dad might have let it go with the ear-splintering yelling, but Richie's backside had seen the dirtier side of a dumpster that afternoon, and his stomach was rumpling irritatedly, and the calm months had made Richie a little cocky, so he did the last thing he should have done. Richie talked back to his father.

Now, he was paying for it.

Richie never really considered the "lessons" his father taught him the punishment; he got worse fighting through the hallways of high school. What really smarted on Richie was the way he'd have to avoid Virgil for days at a time. Virgil could read Richie like a book, and Richie just wanted to white out all his pages.

He could handle this on his own.

So, basically, bada bing, bada boom, and Richie's walking to school solo. And late.

Meandering all alone through the empty streets, though, had a few down-sides. Richie rarely worried about the dangers of Dakota since he had become Gear. After all, he faced them head-on everyday, so why be scared? He continued to forget that he was a lot more fit for not being scared when he was Gear and that Richie Foley, average (if above average intelligence) teenager, could do very little to the things that go bump in the mid-morning.

Before he knew what was happening, Richie's back was flush with a chain-link fence. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a sign that was very adamant about keeping people out of the yard. A low growl from behind him punctuated the point perfectly.

None of that was really at the forefront of Richie's mind, though, as a face that had co-stared in many of his nightmares as child invaded his eye-line.

Hotstreak braced his forearm across Richie's chest, getting close enough to really make Richie sweat (with very literal _heat_ radiating off his arms). "Hey, Foley Four-eyes! What's a little loser like you doin' all by your lonesome?"

Richie, though he probably should have exercised extreme digression, rolled his eyes, mouth moving before he realized what he was saying. "That nickname wasn't funny when you made it up in third grade, Francis, and it isn't funny now."

Mind finally catching up with his actions, Richie squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable pounding. That was what Hotstreak did. Had always. Scrawny pale kids with thick glasses don't exactly get slack from bully-types, and Richie was (surpassed only by Virgil) one of Hotstreak's favorite targets.

Surprisingly, no blow came. Richie pried his eyes open to see Hotstreak examining his face with uncharacteristic scrutiny.

Richie simply couldn't help himself. "I know I'm quite dazzling to look at, but regardless. Forget to take your medication this morning?"

Displaying a shocking amount of restraint, Hotstreak neither bashed Richie's face in nor roasted him over an open flame. Instead, he reached up with his free hand and swiped under Richie's left eye with his thumb.

Richie did his best to hide the wince. Somehow, he didn't really pull it off.

Hotstreak held the thumb in front of Richie's eyes. Richie knew that it was smeared with make-up without ever dropping his eyes, but he found continuing to look into Hotstreak's eyes was less than favorable, so he decided to look down just for kicks.

"Either you have way more personal problems than I thought," Hotstreak began, raising an eyebrow expectantly, "or you have one nasty one at home."

Richie did not acknowledge the flush that swept over his face. Was is obvious? Richie had done it a couple times before, and no one had noticed then. Was he out of practice?

"Yeah, so I tried to cover-up a black-eye, Francis. Breaking news, really. It's not like you haven't given me your fair share of these." Richie found his sarcasm pretty acceptable. It fooled most people.

Hotstreak locked eyes with Richie, and Richie suddenly started to feel the fear in the bottoms of his feet that should have been there from the start, itching him to run away, fight or flight instincts taking over. "Please. You may be able to fool your little girlfriend _Virgil Hawkins_ –“ Hotstreak said the name with such disgust that even Richie was a little taken aback “–but that shit won't work on me. You and I both know that most black-eyes don't warrant a full make-over." Hotstreak sneered a little, but, to the boy genius's infinite surprise, he let go and backed out of Richie's space.

"That's a pretty good job you did, but covering it up only makes it worse. Sure, there'll be questions, but getting caught with make-up is a sure sign. Anyway, you might actually get some street cred out of the deal."

Hotstreak started to walk away, his strides screaming "Don't mess with me".

Richie breathed a little sigh of relief, daring to hope that he wasn't going to receive a beating from Hotstreak. If Hotstreak's words made Richie uncomfortable, he damn well wasn't going to let the young meta-human know it.

"I really don't know what you're talking about," he called to the retreating form.

Hotstreak didn't even turn around. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Four-eyes."

Richie shrugged off the fence, deciding that it would be smarter to get the hell out of dodge before Hotstreak regained his sanity.

Still, he couldn't resist, "Geez, man, didn't even smash my face in. What's gotten into you?" He didn't say it very loudly, but he had few doubts that Hotstreak heard him.

"Looks like you've been beaten up enough for today."

Richie almost didn't hear the statement, but the second it reached his ears, he felt a knot twisting in his stomach. If Hotstreak noticed, would Virgil?

Richie quickly shook his head free of thoughts, deciding that he would check himself out in the bathroom at school before going to class. He was going to be late, anyway. All else failing, he could say he had a run-in with Hotstreak that morning. It wouldn't even be a lie.


End file.
